Decorus Somnus
by Anon and anon
Summary: SLASH WIP An unexpected raid and a forgotten curse may lead Harry to the one thing he's never thought he wanted - if he has the courage to reach for it. KS/HP/LM
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine beyond the plot – and please feel free to correct my Latin at will. The story used below is adapted from _Sole, Luna, e Talia_, written by Giambattista Basile as one of the oldest version of the more well-known story of today.

Exhaustion lined the faces of all those sitting in the study. Even Albus Dumbledore, characteristically resplendent in his brilliant lime-green and purple robes, looked lined and weary.

It had been just under a week ago, now, that the raid had happened. One hundred and twenty-six hours and sixteen minutes since the strangely coloured curse had broken all their shields, and struck one green-eyed boy – no, man, now – in the back.

At first they thought he had gotten lucky. There were no immediate physical affects from the curse, no visible wounds for Madame Pomfrey to attend to. It was Harry who had first noticed the slight tremors and the odd, constant tiredness, and Hermione who had forced them all out of denial to admit that there was something wrong.

Four days of frantic researching, four days of ever-mounting strain and exhaustion, four days of Harry turning pale and shaking with the stress and exhaustion, and they had their answer. It was rather ironic, Harry thought, that the half-blood Dark Lord, waging a war based on pureblood supremacy, had had to use a muggle-rooted curse to take him down.

The _decorus somnus _curse had been created by a Muggle-born dark wizard in the 17th century who had read of magic and dreamed of magic and loved magic – and then had been forced into a world that reviled and hated him for his blood and lineage. He had been tormented and shunned, denied schooling or acceptance from those around him. In revenge, the wizard had developed curses that twisted his original hopes and dreams into death and despair.

The one used on Harry had been the last curse that wizard had invented before his death. He had called it the _beautiful sleep_.

Hermione, armed with the name of the curse, had found the basis from which the dark wizard had worked. The wizard had been well acquainted, in his love of magic, with the story of the beautiful woman named Talia, who was fated to fall into an endless sleep after being pricked by a splinter of flax. He had known about how the woman was raped, and while unconscious, how she had birthed two children, named Sun and Moon, who removed the splinter of flax from her finger. And he had known, and rejoiced, in his hatred, at how the jealous queen had tried to kill the two children and feed them to the King in return for his infidelity, and how the queen was, in turn, killed by the King for the attempted murder of Talia, Sun and Moon.

These were the roots of the _beautiful sleep_ curse; the curse's founder had understood the dark heart of the story, and had fed that betrayal and pain into a curse that weakened and twisted the victim. The spell was a slow-acting version of the flax from the story. The cure was deceptively simple, and cruel in that simplicity – for what they needed was to find one single person, like Talia's child, who could love Harry unconditionally, without desiring anything else but his love in return. Only that person would be able to lift the curse. If they were not found, Harry would continue to weaken and burn with fire, afflicted with fever and torment until he succumbed to the sleep from which the name came – the _beautiful sleep_, the sleep of mercy, of respite from the pain, the sleep of death.

The gathering in Dumbledore's study today of Professors and select Order members, Hermione, and Harry had been organized to share what little they knew, and to look for a solution.

It was Bill who connected Hermione's description of the cure to the wizarding concept of bonded souls, magic users whose magic and magical core were completely compatible. Together, the pair would experience a magical boost, giving them each some new set of skills or power. Every witch and wizard had a bonded soul, whether that be best friend, lover, family, or complete stranger - for it was the finding that was rare and difficult. Harry, himself, currently only knew of one pair of bonded souls – Fred and George Weasley.

Suggestions had abounded, with even the – Harry snorted softly – Dursley's names coming up. Those had, thankfully, been vetoed quickly and absolutely. Friends, adopted family, ex-girlfriends – even the bloke he had kissed last year in the Quidditch shed had had his name dragged in, although Harry _never_ wanted to know why McGonagall knew that last bit of information.

Hands warming on a mug of steaming tea, Harry concentrated on containing the tremors and let the conversation flow around him. He heard Hermione's resolute _We'll find the person_ and Snape's drawled _The Dark Lord is happy, indeed. After all, Mr. Potter is now even less of a threat, if that is at all possible_, but wasn't overly concerned with the current discussion. There had been something, a glimmer of an idea, flitting at the back of his mind, and if he could just _focus_ on it – ah, yes. And wasn't that happy.

"Uhm – I think there is something else we need to consider."

The noise continued right over his rather hoarse voice, and would have continued indefinitely if not, oddly enough, for one Severus Snape.

"You have a thought, Mr. Potter? Do enlighten us – this is the first and quite possibly last time for such an occurrence, and I, for one, am desperate not to miss it."

Harry managed to resist sticking out his tongue, though that was more from exhaustion (and maybe, way deep down, a small smidgen of respect for the man who had managed to wrangle the identity of the curse from Voldemort) than maturity.

:"Well, yes. Uhm - I don't think Voldemort is just trying to kill me with the _decorus somnus_. Not that it wouldn't be a nice side affect, of course, but – what if, instead, Voldemort is worried that a bonded soul is the power he knows not. "

There was a moment of silence, and a rare, almost-approving nod from the dark-haired Potions master. Clearing his throat, Harry rushed on before the talking could erupt once more.

"What – well, what if he used this curse to make us flush out that person for him? So that he could get rid of them and thus break the prophecy?"

Looking around, Harry could see the beginnings of agreement and understanding cross the faces around him. It was, unfortunately, all too probable. The silence held, until it was broken by the quiet words of Ablus Dumbledore

"And that understanding, my dear boy, is why Voldemort fears you. Indeed, ladies and gentlemen, indeed – I think this might bear some looking in to."

TBC.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still not mine, alas, beyond the plot. Thanks to those who read, and many thanks to those who review.

_Three days later..._

The day dawned wet and grey and dreary, a perfect counterpoint, Harry thought, to his own rather bleak mood. He coughed raspily, then clenched his teeth as another tremor wrenched through his frame. Pushing back the heavy blankets, and stiffly dragging himself out of bed, he stuffed his frozen feet into slippers before shuffling towards the bathroom, readying himself to face yet another day.

They had decided during that last meeting, that the curse – and its' effect on Harry – would have to be kept secret if they wanted the slightest chance of keeping Harry's bonded alive. The less people who knew of the problem, the less people there would be to spread word around if they managed to find Harry's elusive soul-bonded. What this meant, however, was that Harry was subjected to a daily round of potions and philtres designed to mask the symptoms and keep him alert and energetic enough to get to classes and most meals. Even those, however, were beginning to fail – Harry ruefully acknowledged that even on a day like today, a good day, there was little likelihood of him making it to both scheduled classes and all three meals. Thankfully the Easter break was scheduled to begin the next day, removing most of the prying eyes from the school.

There was some hope on the horizon, however – together, Snape, Flitwick and Hermione had managed to cobble together a series of potions and spells that would allow them to see the physical manifestations of people's magic for a limited amount of time. The hope was that they could visually asses the particular 'feel' of Harry's magic and then the search team – comprised of Weasleys, Flitwick, McGonagall, Snape, Hermione, Tonks, Lupin and the Headmaster – would each take an extra flask of the potion and do their best to spread out unobtrusively and visually assess as many people as possible who fit into the same power levels as Harry did.

Even on a good day, Harry thought that their plan had more holes than Swiss cheese. Yet, as the wracking, hacking coughs started up once more, leaving him winded and feverish, he wryly conceded that even swiss-cheese plans were better than nothing.

Come to think of it, he'd always rather liked swiss cheese anyway.

* * *

_24 hours later_

Standing in Dumbledore's office, a steaming goblet of – well, something best not considered too deeply – in hand, Harry hazily watched as the tiny Charms professor inked in a last rune to the circle enclosing his feet.

The unofficial search team was gathered, already cloaked and with gear at hand, ready to head out to their designated search area as soon as the ritual was over and they had a decent idea of Harry's true power levels. The enhanced sight would last for twenty-four hours; with the extra potions brewed by Snape, they could extend that to a total of forty-eight hours each.

At Snape's sharply impatient glare, Harry tipped the foul concoction back and shuddered as it quite literally _slithered_ down his throat, thick and slimy and rather wretchedly nasty.

There was a sudden wave of intense heat, then freezing cold that swept through the room. One of Dumbledore's delicate silver ornaments melted under a particularly hot burst then refroze as a pile of still-dripping metal. Harry could feel his magic pushing, straining, escaping from him in waves of power that rolled over the watchers and just about tumbled poor Professor Flitwick to the floor.

Harry heard a gasp from Hermione, but was more focused on his expanding magic as it erupted around him in thick swathes of storm grey, green and gold. It caressed his skin, winding around him like an affectionate pet, almost _humming_ in intensity before settling like a thick cloak around his shoulders. For a moment, one brief moment, Harry was able to forget about the curse as his magic wrapped him in warmth and strength.

"Powerful, indeed, my boy" came the wondering voice of the Headmaster as he watched the show. "I think we can safely confine our searches to the upper power stratas, now. Well done, well done indeed."

Harry was jerked roughly back to present as the people in the room began to apparate out. Bill Weasley left to check the Gringotts curse breakers, Arthur and Tonks heading for the Ministry and the Aurors respectively. The rest likewise divided up, heading first towards those places and positions where they were virtually guaranteed a high percentage of powerful witches and wizards.

As the shakes and the rasping, now blood-stained coughing started up again, Dumbledore helped Harry to a waiting chaise lounge and hoped that their searchers would find something, and soon.

* * *

Hermione Granger re-appeared eighteen hours later in Dumbledore's office just in time to see Harry vomit up watery bile once more.

"I'm sorry, Harry," the bushy haired witch apologized as she handed him a wet rag to wipe his mouth, "no luck on my end." She had been sent to Beauxbaxtons to take a look at the faculty and students on the guise of searching their library for several tomes she needed for her seventh year project. "The others are still out there, and we'll find him or her, I swear."

Still panting slightly from the shock of the dry heaves, Harry looked up to smile wanly at this all-but-adopted sister. "Its'okay, Mione... didn't really expect Beauxbaxtons, anyways."

She managed a small smile at this show of school pride before worry took over once more.

* * *

Twelve hours later, eight more of the searchers had come back empty-handed. Poppy Pomfrey, who had finally lulled Harry into an uninterrupted sleep, shushed them all fiercely and send them to eat and then collapse on the nearest possible beds.

Poppy exchanged a worried look with the exhausted headmaster and a rather frazzled Hermione. At this rate, things were not looking good – and Harry's condition, apparent in his harsh, irregular breathing, was steadily getting worse.

Just as Harry stirred, however, rubbing gunk from his tired eyes and stretching sore muscles, a patronus flew quickly into the office and headed towards Dumbledore.

"Headmaster!" came Tonks' voice from the silvery creature, "I think I've found a match, at least to the gold and the green. I'm almost positive, but there isn't any grey that I can see..."

Every one of them, from Poppy to Dumbledore, froze. A match, but not a full match? That was unheard of. There should be one, perfect match, unless...

Hermione's head whipped up, frantically turning to Harry as the answer fell into her lap.

"Harry – the story! It.. it isn't _one_ person we're looking for..."

The green eyes stared at her for a moment, puzzled, until the pieces rapidly clicked into place.

"It's two." he finished, hoarsely. "Of course. Sun and Moon, right? Is that even possible, though?"

The headmaster chose that minute to intervene.

"Rare, yes my boy – but not impossible, no. Rather, these groups were known as Triads or Triumvirates – and they are only formed by the most powerful. Most witches and wizards are balanced by one other, their perfect pair; but, as Miss. Granger has so ably pointed out, you are not a _weak_ wizard by any means, and the curse does leave room for two."

It was at that moment, of course, that a delicate doe patronus came bounding into the room, and Snape's sneering voice issues forth.

"A match, headmaster, but not a full one. Can that blasted boy not do anything normally?"

Harry didn't know whether he should laugh hysterically or break down and scream.

TBC.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Alas, only the plot remains mine. It should be noted that this is also a 7th year fic, making Harry and co. approximately 17 or 18. As this is a WIP, you might also note chapters being corrected and re-uploaded – many thanks for your patience and consideration with this =)

There are two. _Two._

Not one, but _two._

Harry thinks he should be grateful that they've even found his bonded souls, but he's still a little too stuck on the _two_ thing for the moment. Never mind that his symptoms have taken an abrupt 180-degree turn, now, making it hard for him to awoken from his frequent naps and causing him to be constantly in a state of bone-chilling cold. Never mind that he is _still_ ensconced in the Headmaster's office, awaiting news of his fate. The nausea is also getting worse, but even the hint of a cure for his downwardly spiralling state doesn't stop his mind from continuously squeaking "Two! Two! Not one, but two!"

At least he's not the only one, he thinks wryly, for Hermione still glances up from her book every now and then to bemusedly mouth "Two?" to him from across the room.

Shivering some more, Harry weakly snuggled down into his nest of couch and blankets, all of which were thickly coated with as many warming charms as they could take. So – bonded souls. Any time now both Tonks and Snape would report in with the actual identity of the two people he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with. The two people who, apparently, could match his magic and could love him, quite simply, just for who he was.

Oh, Merlin.

Dumbledore had explained – straightforwardly, for once – that in this case being bonded didn't mean romance or (_ugh_) marriage. It didn't even mean that his bonded loved him right now. It just meant that this – no, Harry corrected himself, _these_ – were the people who had the _potential_ to love him more wholeheartedly, whether as brother or friend or lover, than anyone else he would ever meet.

Once they met - and if these mysterious people agreed to let the bond form – then, he would be cured. With that agreement, they would also be agreeing to be bonded for life.

Harry thought that, more than anything, scared him the most. If asked, he might have confessed that deep, deep down, in the place where he could still hear Petunia's shrill screeching and Vernon's bellows, he rather doubted that anyone could feel that type of love, whether familial, platonic, or more, for him. This whole idea of soul bonds, therefore, just seemed like the set up for some massive cosmic joke – of which he, Harry Potter, would once more be the punch line.

Harry was abruptly yanked from his brooding when Dumbledore's fire turned green and with a loud _woosh_, spat out a bundle of pink hair and flailing limbs. Nymphadora Tonks landed, spluttering out ash and rolling arse-over-teakettle, on the rug at Harry's couch side and gasped for a winded moment or two before managing to haul herself upright.

"Wotcher, Harry," the Auror greeted. "See that you've got yourself in a bit of a pickle, mate. Life just getting a little too boring?"

She smirked at him, barely waiting for him to poke his hand out of his blanket-nest and give an anxious wave of acknowledgement before she turned to greet the Headmaster.

"Ah, Auror Tonks. Thank you, my dear, for taking care of this matter so promptly. Perhaps we'd better join Harry at the fire and then you can tell us all that you have found. A spot of cocoa as well, perhaps?"

Still speaking, Dumbledore moved towards the fire, relaying an order for tea to the house elf who appeared, then gesturing for both Hermione and Tonks to join them as he seated himself on the winged armchair by Harry's feet. Hermione quickly settled down on the rug, notebook and quill already in hand.

Tonks, seating herself beside Dumblodore after tripping only once, saw the anxiety splashed across Harry's tired face and realized just how much this meant to him. Rather than teasing, therefore, she turned to look him in the eye and, face solemn, spoke two words:

"Kingsley Shacklebolt."

Harry went still. _Kingsley Shacklebolt._ He tried to remember everything he knew, had heard, or overheard about the older Auror. He'd like Shacklebolt, the several times he'd met him. Tall, dark and easy-going, with a deep, rumbling voice – the Auror was intelligent, brave, powerful, still fairly young and, Harry realized abruptly, was not someone he would mind knowing better, whether as a mentor, or – and Harry blushed – _rather more._

Hermione, thoughts running along the same lines as Harry's, shared a small smirk with Tonks at the flush on Harry's face. No, Shacklebolt was not a bad thing at all for her all-but adopted brother. Harry would need somebody older and steadier as a bond mate, no matter how the relationship itself turned out – though Hermione speculated that Harry wouldn't mind the relationship going a very certain way, and from what she'd heard of Shacklebolt, neither would the older Auror. Besides, she thought, mind whirring, Harry _was_ both overly mature for his age and well into adulthood, anyway....

Several minutes later, still lost in thought, both teens jumped when the Floo roared once more. This time, however, it was a tall, dark figure who stepped gracefully out of the Floo and meticulously brushed soot from dark robes. The Headmaster and Tonks broke away from their conversation, with Albus Dumbledore immediately waving his hand to pull up an extra seat for the exhausted Potion's Master.

Seeing Professor Snape made Harry aware of something he hadn't considered before and, dread rising, he immediately turned his head to look at Hermione while the headmaster was still serving tea.

"Mione," he whispered, "I just ... just, what section was Snape sent to survey?"

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry, " she corrected automatically. Then brow scrunching in thought, "I think he was sent to... no, that was Charlie. No, Professor Snape was sent to - _oh_..."

Hearing her despairing moan as she trailed off, Harry knew he'd been correct. He turned his head to look at the Headmaster, instead finding three gazes already fixed on him, including one well-practiced sneer.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, you are for once both correct. I, of course, had the wonderful pleasure of visiting the Dark Lord's camps. And yes, I did find your _bonded_, Mr. Potter."

Snape leaned a little towards Harry, sharp obsidian glare meeting panicked green. Harry thought he saw, just for a moment, a hint of – compassion? apology? – from his least favourite teacher before those thin lips moved again to snarl out a name in response to the unasked question:

"Lucius Malfoy. "

And Harry's head hit the pillow behind him, mind going blank and stunned, as questions and exclamations erupted from those around him

_Lucius Malfoy._

_Kingsley Shacklebolt _and _Lucius Malfoy._

Oh, Merlin, indeed.

TBC.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Yep, still not mine besides the plot. Many thanks to all those who reviewed!

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been having an unusual day.

It had started off rather decently, with a hot mug of his favourite mocha coffee and a brisk walk through the cool Easter weather down to the Ministry of Magic. Even his current partner, who, Kingsley would admit, needed a bit of work (Moody called the man "an absolute menace with less survival instinct than a blasted lemming") had finished filling out the necessary paperwork for their case in a half-way competent manner.

Which is why when he first started noticing the oddness, he dismissed it in favour of his paperwork.

By the third time it happened, however, even Kingsley had to admit something was up.

Nymphadora Tonks, pink-haired Auror and all-around klutz, was stalking people. Or imagining them naked. Or doing something even more disturbing that required her to stare intently at them for several minutes at a time while mumbling to herself - and scribbling on the grubby piece of paper she had been hauling around. And this was her day off.

What was stranger still, was that he was apparently the only one noticing this. Now, granted, Tonks was _often_ rather strange, and this had nothing on the day she had tried to metamorph into a goblin and got stuck instead with large, pointy ears, a lack of hair and a tendency to snarl when provoked. However, Kingsley's instincts were telling him that something was up, and he definitely had not survived this long as an Auror and an Order member by ignoring those very same instincts.

The fourth time he saw her go past, therefore, Kingsley stood from his desk and snuck from his office, following her like a giant, silent panther. He followed her as she scrutinized Ackles and Williamsby, and as she followed poor Henrietta Marks all the way to the elevators. By this time, Kingsley had concluded two things: first, that Tonks was apparently intent on stalking every moderately powerful ministry employee who crossed her path, and secondly, that Tonk was definitely due for another Moody lecture if _she still hadn't noticed him!_

Kingsley did, of course, then take great (and silent) amusement from standing behind the oblivious Auror and clearing his throat _very_ loudly. The resulting flail of pink hair and sprawling limbs was quite satisfactory, and Kingsley thought he had gotten his point across quite effectively.

What he hadn't expected, however, was for what happened as soon as Tonks got herself standing back up and (reasonably) composed again. She turned to scold him, mouth going a mile a minute, when she suddenly stopped mid-sentence to stare at him quite intently.

"Ah – Auror Tonks?" the big man rumbled, trying to get her attention. Then, finally when that didn't work, "_Nymphadora!"_

Rather than the acidic rejoinder he'd expected, however, Kingsley only got Tonks to stutter at him for a few minutes before she made an embarrassed noise and ran off in the other direction, barely missing taking down several file-bearing interns.

Weird.

Kingsley shrugged to himself – if it were really that important, he was sure to be told of it soon enough. If it was something to do with the Order, and more specifically, Harry Potter, than he was sure he would be told sooner than later – he had, after all, expressed an interest in helping to train the young man who had so impressed him already.

With that decided, Kingsley wandered back to his desk to finish off his paperwork. When the unobtrusive message arrived, several hours later, asking Kingsley to come round to Hogwarts as soon as possible, the Auror was rather unsurprised.

Looked like he would figure it out sooner, rather than later, after all.

* * *

Severus Snape had also been having a very unusual day. Rather, he might have used the words "wretched," "viciously sadistic" and "mind-destroying horrible" rather than unusual, but the point remained the same.

He had been sent, really, to be no more than a glorified matchmaker for a puffed-up arrogant brat who couldn't walk two feet without falling into some sort of trouble. And, to top it all off, he was expected to _wander through the main Death eater camp _oh-so-casually on this lovely, hearts-and-rainbows mission.

Needless to say, Severus Snape was not a very happy man.

Seventeen hours later, covered in slime (from an experimental potion-gone-wrong), and dirt (from crawling on his knees to that incompent insane maniac he had once called Lord), and still shaking from the after-effects of the Cruciatus (for having been _two bloody inches _too far to the left in the Circle), Snape was not surprised when, of course, he managed to stumble upon the brat's soul-bond victim.

The way his day had been going, he was just relieved that it hadn't turned out to be Lord Lack-A-Nose himself. Of course, Lucius Malfoy, in the eyes of many, was not much better, and Severus quickly suppressed a flicker of what might have been sympathy for the Potter spawn. (Severus had been finding that this happened more and more, but was firmly in denial that he had ever connected _respect_ and _Potter_ in the same thought, let alone something as nausea-inducing as _sympathy_.)

Still, as he slogged through ankle-deep sewage (the results of another Death Eater's incompetent experimental hex) and tried to keep his gritty, exhausted body moving, Severus Snape acknowledged that something deep inside him, something he tried hard to not label as _hope_, had risen – for if there was anyone who could out-stubborn Lucius Malfoy, it would be Harry Potter. And if there was anyone who Lord Voldemort might still fear, in his twisted, blackened remains of a mind, it would be a pissed-off Malfoy Lord soul-bonded to a power-boosted, overly righteous Gryffindor who didn't know when to stop.

Yes, Severus Snape decided, things were about to get interesting. And maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing to offer the green-eyed brat a little bit of Slytherin assistance in the future... only because it would assure Severus's own well being, of course.

Not because he cared, of course.

Because he didn't.

At all.

Happily plotting, the Potions Master slogged along, looking forward to a bath, a scotch, and the look on Albus Dumbledore's face when he relayed his news. Yes, Severus thought, there were worse things to be than a Slytherin fly-on-the-wall...

TBC.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer and AN: no, they are not mine. Alas. Thanks to all those who read and reviewed - the feedback is muchly appreciated! (Do people like getting individual responses to their reviews, btw?)

Lucius Malfoy was a cold, cruel man.

Anyone who had met him, anyone who had even heard of the infamously powerful Malfoy Lord would tell you that he was heartless, ruthless and slippery, that he should not to be trusted.

Lucius Malfoy, tall, blonde and aristocratic, would not disagree.

Lucius knew that he was neither kind, nor approachable, nor even well-respected – rather, he was feared for the money and power that he wielded. He had purposely cultivated the image he had, and it all meant one thing – _you did not mess with Lucius Malfoy and survive. _

From his birth, Lucius had been indoctrinated with the Malfoy code – family first, before all else. Time after time the Malfoy family had been forsaken by friends, been betrayed by allies, had been scarred by those they trusted. They had never been a large family, the Malfoys, with rarely more than one child born per generation; the betrayals, therefore, struck harder than most. After the last, greatest betrayal, which had almost led to the end of the Malfoy line, the Malfoy patriarch of the time, Lord Marchisand Malfoy, had set down the iron rule of the Malfoys: Family first, always, before all else.

This rule had been one that Lucius Malfoy had followed all his life. He had married, for the Malfoy family, had built his reputation to protect said family, and had joined the Dark Lord on the promise of maintaining the Malfoy heritage and line.

Now, however, everything had changed, and this is what led Lucius Malfoy to where he was now – sitting in his study in Malfoy Manor, brandy in hand, contemplating the dilemma he currently found himself in.

Two weeks ago, the Dark Lord had called for the Malfoys, and had blamed Lucius for the failed raid to capture Potter. It _had_ been a failure, and Lucius knew that – but he had also known that the Dark Lord's ludicrous plan was almost inevitably made for failure. What was unforgivable, however, was that the Dark Lord had deemed that failure to be on Lucius' head alone – and the Dark Lord had killed Narcissa Malfoy in retaliation.

This meant one thing.

The Dark Lord had killed a Malfoy, and for that, the Dark Lord had to die.

It did not matter that Narcissa had not been a Malfoy by blood, nor did it matter that the match had not been for love. Narcissa had married into the family, and had taken the Malfoy line as her own; proud, composed, and beautiful, Narcissa had been the perfect Malfoy, and as such, her death could not go unpunished.

The dilemma, of course, was that Lucius Malfoy therefore had to change the loyalties of the Malfoy family. He was bound to the Dark Lord, but the Dark Lord had proved himself unworthy, and the other options – Lucius sneered – seemed to be the rag-tag band of do-gooder Gryffindors that the barmy Headmaster had assembled.

Restless, Lucius stood and moved to the large bay window, sipping his brandy as he looked out over the manicured grounds surrounding the manor. He felt - almost itchy, as plebeian as it sounded, like his skin was too tight and the spacious Manor too confining. Lucius wanted to act, to plot, to start planning for the downfall of the Dark Lord – this waffling of options was unbecoming a Malfoy, and would have to end.

For now, however – and he grimaced as the Dark mark on his arm began to burn – there was a Dark Lord to attend to, and his plotting could wait.

* * *

Several hours later, Lucius stepped smoothly back out of the fireplace, deep in thought. There had been something – off, with Severus Snape tonight. The Potions Master was smart, sly and the ultimate Slytherin, and Lucius was willing to bet that his sort-of friend had something going on. Something large, and something to do with him.

The signs were not obvious – with Severus, they never were. However, if a Malfoy had friends, then Severus would be the closest to what Lucius considered a friend; as such, he probably knew the Potions Master's habits better than most, and tonight something had signalled that Severus was plotting, his mind turning over some problem and planning as many ways as possible to profit from said plan. At the beginning of the evening, Severus had looked – quite frankly – more snarky and grumpy than usual. By the end of the meeting, however, even with the experimental potion muck-up, Severus had looked almost... happy. And a happy Severus only came about when there were Hufflepuffs to torture, or there was a plan brewing in that ever-intelligent (if greasy) head.

And if there was a plan, Lucius Malfoy wanted in.

Thus, the next morning, when Lucius broke the wax seal on the invitation to Hogwarts, a cold, satisfied smile crossed his features before he scrawled off an elegant reply, and prepared to head to the school.

* * *

It was a half-hour till the designated meeting hour, and Harry was composed, if nervous. His head hurt, he felt like he was boiling and yet paradoxically was shivering from the cold, and his stomach was doing slow, nauseating swoops. Tonks had been tripping over her own feet and offering totally unhelpful comments about 'certain emerald eyed-heroes being all grown up" and 'wow, it's almost like getting married, isn't it!' for the last half hour, till Hermione had forcibly silenced her and bound her to a chair. The Metamorphmagus was sulking, and Harry knew he'd pay for it later – but for now, he was more grateful than anyone but Hermione knew.

Snape, on the other hand, had come and sat in the hard arm chair across from Harry, and had had a frankly obscure exchange of words and snark with him that had left the man looking oddly, unnervingly pleased. The Potions Master had even let out a small, evil, gleeful smile, and Harry had had to stop himself from attempting to hide under the nearest large piece of furniture. A pleased Snape, Harry had quickly learnt, never, ever meant anything good – and even if they were in some sort of weird truce state at the moment, that didn't mean that having the Head of Slytherin plotting, and looking _happy_ about it, was any less worrisome.

The tall, saturnine man had retreated, drink in hand, to a dark corner some ten minutes ago after dispensing what Harry thought might have been unusually un-hateful advice. _There is a time and a place, Mr. Potter, for Gryffindor stubbornness. With Lucius, stubbornness is not a bad thing; do try, however, to use that pea-sized pebble you call a brain and remember that you are more than just a Gryffindor, loath as I am to say it. If you have any redeeming characteristics whatsoever (and by that, Mr. Potter, I mean Slytherin characteristics), now would be the time to use them._

Harry had considered it, and thought he might have seen a glint of approval from Snape when he moved to hide all signs of his weakness. Dumbledore had twinkled away, helping Harry to sit up and spell away the stale sweat marring his clothes; tea had once more been ordered, and Harry, after some consideration, had moved from the couch to a green, wing-backed armchair to better prop himself up. Harry, Dumbledore, Hermione and Snape were seated, and Tonks was still safely strapped to a chair; there was tea, and the pile of reference books Hermione had been looking at were safely secreted away. All they needed now, was Malfoy and Kingsley.

The floo flared, and Harry had to abruptly swallow back a sudden wave of nausea – it was time.

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Firstly – thanks to all those who read, and thanks with whipped cream and a cherry on top to all those who reviewed. Feedback truly is a wonderful thing. Secondly, I still don`t own anything besides the plot. Alas.

Lucius Malfoy sneered, tall and blond and elegant, as he stepped from the open Floo.

The old fool was seated, eyes twinkling, in a purple velvet armchair that managed to clash horribly with his orange and lime-green robes. There were two Aurors, one – that disgraced, despicable niece of Narcissa's – rather puzzlingly strapped to a hard wooden chair in the corner; the other, a tall, dark man, Lucius recognized as Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was one of the Ministry's top Aurors.

Then, there was the Potter brat, who, Lucius noted absently, looked a great deal more grown up than Lucius remembered. The brat had done rather well in the raid that had cost Narcissa her life – obviously Dumbledore's Golden Boy was starting to grow up. At his feet sat the bushy-haired Mudblood, with – Lucius smirked – pen and paper already set out. No matter what Draco said, and no matter the girl's blood, even Lucius knew that she was Potter's fiercest – and scarily bright – protector.

And, of course, there was Severus, skulking in a darkened corner like the good Slytherin he was. Lucius smirked, and greeted his not-quite-a-friend with a subtle nod of his sleek blond head. He saw Severus slightly lift the glass of brandy in greeting, before Lucius turned to seat himself in the eye-wrenching paisley armchairs.

"Welcome, Auror Shacklebolt, Lord Malfoy," said the old coot cheerfully. "Please, do seat yourself, and have some tea. Lemon drop, anyone?"

Lucius didn't even bother to answer that one.

Oddly enough, it was the Potter brat who ended Dumbledore's happy prattling about tea and sweets – Lucius would admit to being cautiously impressed with the wryly quirked eyebrow that made the Headmaster hum happily and give the floor to Potter.

The boy-saviour, with one deep inhalation, settled his face into a blank, emotionless mask.

And then the brat explained, about Kinglsey and Lucius and their bond with Harry, and how their power would grow and expand. Though no-one would have noticed (except, maybe, the damnably observant Potions Master skulking in the corner), Lucius was, quite frankly, rather taken aback. This was not at _all_ what he had been expecting. _Potter_ was not at all what he was expecting. _Potter with power and poise_ was almost more than the reserved Lord Malfoy could handle.

However – Malfoys always prided themselves on being flexible, correct? And a Malfoy always chose the winning side... and, to be quite truthful, the idea of Harry Potter and one of the top Ministry Aurors bonded to the Malfoy family wasn`t quite as horrendous an idea as it had originally seemed. And as for any poise that Potter might be exhibiting... well, surely that would pass, and the boy would be in need of some guidance and supervision.

No, Lucius thought, maybe this wasn`t so bad. And maybe, just maybe, this could be the way out of his bloody Voldemort-based dilemma as well. After all, what better revenge would there be on the snake-faced bastard then to have his right-hand man bond with his worst enemy?

Besides, of course, gaining control of said worst enemy and raising the Malfoy family to new heights of fame and glory while watching the thing that had killed his wife die, cursing and screaming in agony...

And so, Lucius smirked. Evilly.

Yes, maybe this wasn`t such a bad thing at all.

After all, when was power _ever_ a bad thing?

* * *

Kingsley Shacklebolt was a little bit stunned, rather wryly amused, and altogether pretty damn impressed.

He knew that Potter – Harry – was keeping something back as the young man quietly and competently explained the situation. The young hero, for example, wasn't quite quick enough to conceal the odd flinch of pain from Kinglsey's Auror-sharpened eyes. Watching him closely, Kingsley thought he could also detect faint tremors and tiny droplets of sweat beading by his hairline – all of which pointed to a curse or an illness.

What was impressing him, though, was Harry's ability to handle Lucius Malfoy. Harry was definitely tapping into latent talents – hinting at just enough to get Malfoy interested, suggesting power and possibility, while hiding any vulnerabilities Harry might have possessed. Kingsley had seen this side of Harry once before, when the Order had been planning a raid and Harry had entirely re-negotiated their plans based on his knowledge of Voldemort. It had turned out to be their most successful raid to date. This Harry, the one who might be nervous as all hell but still managed to stand project a power and confidence that was pretty impressive for his age – yes, in a bare handful of months Kingsley could see this Harry going from the shy, but powerful boy-hero straight into a man without equal.

As Harry went on to explain – _bonded souls_, and _increased power_, and _potential gain_ – Kingsley only heard one thing – _Possibility_.

Possibility. If Malfoy turned out to actually be the type of man loyal enough to kill for his wife and who truly adored his son. If Harry could stay stubborn and strong and yet allow himself the risk of trusting enough to reveal those hidden vulnerabilities. If Kingsley, himself, could unbend enough to give Malfoy a second chance and if they could all, somehow, learn not to clash but to work together for more than power.

If Malfoy could be anything but a power-seeking bastard.

If Harry and Kingsley could _accept_ that Malfoy was anything but a bastard.

If Kingsley could actually let both men within his walls, and if both men were willing to see past them.

If, if, if.... but, Kinglsey thought to himself, just think of the possibilities.

* * *

Some individuals (most notably Hogwart`s students, Hufflepuffs (past or present), or really, any individual with a pulse who wasn`t named Dumbledore) would suggest that it took a great deal to amuse Severus Snape.

Some might go so far as to call it impossible.

Then again, Severus Snape, spy and Potions Master extraordinaire, was regularly in the habit of disregarding these puerile meanderings as little more than the soppy idiotic verbal vomit of a host of incompetent dunderheads - so he probably wouldn`t have worried that all these people would have been proven completely and utterly wrong.

For, watching the subtle, intricate dance before him, Severus Snape was _definitely_ amused.

He was amused because Lucius had no idea what he was up against.

He was amused because Shacklebolt knew all too well what _he_ was up against.

And, mostly, Severus was amused because Potter was completely oblivious to all the subtleties, to the barriers, and to the intricate play of meaning and interpretation that the others were tracing – and yet it didn`t matter.

For Potter hadn`t just moved out of the dance, he`d completely changed the rules.

And yet, the great Lucius Malfoy, who prided himself on being the paragon of Slytherin, was being completely out-Slytherin-ed by Gryffindor`s golden poster-boy. And he didn`t even know it.

Yes, thought Snape, life definitely was good. And perhaps, afterwards, there would be time for another chat or two with the young Mr. Potter...

... after all, it wouldn`t do for Lucius to figure things out too fast, or the amusement would just end way too soon.

And this was definitely too amusing, for Severus at least, to cut short.

TBC.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: As mentioned, postings will be completely random and dictated entirely by my ever-changing schedule. Somehow, today turned out to be prolific – please, therefore, enjoy the utterly unforeseen spectacle of another chapter. Thanks, again, to those who read and those who reviewed =)

* * *

The next day started off with students coming back to school, classes picking up again, and a raid.

Three Order members were dead, and a handful of Aurors were still recovering in St. Mungo`s.

It had been, Harry thought wearily, nice when it lasted. For the last two days, he`d been so caught up in his personal life, in the complex manoeuvring needed to reel in Lucius Malfoy, that he`d all but forgotten about the war.

The curse was, of course, an ever-present ache of fever and pain, but even that had lessened in the past day; Hermione had speculated that the change was due to the limited, but present contact with his two potential soul-bonded partners. It wouldn`t dissipate fully, she said, until the actual bonds were fulfilled – regular contact could, however, lessen the symptoms.

After the meeting, Malfoy had – rather surprisingly – accepted a geas to not speak or communicate about the bonds, in return for the same promises from Kingsley, Harry and the others in the room. Their agreement and subsequent oaths had been swift, and in some ways rather anticlimactic. Harry had spent the time before the meeting fretting endlessly about what could go wrong, strategies and speeches whirling through his mind. In the end, however, the meeting had gone almost suspiciously well – Hermione had been able to answer the more technical questions about the bond, and though both men had been surprised, neither had had any strenuous objections.

Harry, personally, had thought that Lucius was just still too focused on the potential power to think about anything else – with Snape's help, they'd truly managed to blindside the man, which had given them the temporary advantage. Harry had no illusions that the actual attempt to put thought into practice would be just as easy, however.

Early this morning, Harry had been awoken by immense pain as Voldemort's cruel joy and a sickening sense of bloodlust swept through him. Between the fever and the pain, Harry had been blinded and incoherent; Hermione had somehow figured out what had happened, and got him to Professor Dumbledore in time for Harry to vomit all over the Headmaster`s fuzzy yellow duck slippers.

They'd still been too late, however. Unable to properly convey the location he'd seen well enough for the others to Apparate to and unwilling to lower his still-amateur Occlumency shields, Snape had been forced to stuff Harry with fever reducers and pepper-up until Harry could stand up long enough to side-Apparate them to the location, almost passing out once more under the strain. Upon arriving, they'd been greeted by the mauled, decapitated bodies of several muggles and three Order members – one of whom had been the elderly Elphias Doge. Harry hadn't recognized the other two, but seeing Doge's familiar form ripped into bloody, ragged chunks had been nightmare enough. They all knew that this had been the worst blow to the Order yet – never before had they lost three of their own in a single raid.

The worst part, and what had them most worried, was that Snape hadn't heard anything about the possibility of a raid – and there was no inkling of whether this was a one-off opportunity, or part of something much larger and or even more sinister. Oddly enough, Lucius Malfoy also hadn't participated, or even been called for the raid; that sick suspicion had immediately flooded Harry's mind upon seeing the bodies. It turned out, however, that Dumbledore had granted Lucius Malfoy leave to stay the night in the castle to spend time with his son, provided that the blond-haired aristocrat remain within sight of Snape at all times – and both the wards and Snape agreed that Lucius Malfoy had not been called, nor had he left the castle at any time during the night.

Snape, being the paranoid bastard that he was, had even drugged the Malfoy lord with veritaserum upon their return, and had easily discovered that Lucius likewise had had no idea about the raid or any such plans. What they were left with, therefore, was a bunch of unanswered questions and the potential loss of their spy – for either Voldemort had just been incredibly lucky and happened across the Order members, or they had an unaccounted-for leak of information.

And now, to top it all off, he had class, when all Harry wanted to do was to go and sleep – between the stress of yesterday's meeting and this morning's 3 a.m. trip, he'd gotten less than four hours of sleep over the last two days. There were appearances to keep up, however, and letting Voldemort know that they were run down and weak was not part of the plan – so, with that thought in mind, Harry dragged his weary body down from the dorm bathrooms to the Common Room. His dorm mates had already left – having just gotten back from a break, they'd been awake and energetic a great deal earlier than usual. Harry had ended up kipping out on the Common room sofa after falling asleep there last night, and so had avoided waking his entire dorm with the early-morning screams.

Hermione was waiting in the Common Room, looking just as weary and stressed as Harry himself did. She, too, had been there for the horrific aftermath of the raid, and it looked like her sleep hadn't been any more restful than Harry's had.

Still, somehow, she managed to dredge up a small, wan smile when she saw him, and linked arms with him before walking out the portrait-hole and down the stairs and through the halls towards breakfast.

"Hermione," Harry said abruptly, stopping. "Do you think this is all going to work? Is it all worth it? Really?"

Hermione turned to look at him, eyes soft and worried, before she tugged on his arm to get them both walking again.

"Yes, Harry, I think it will," she said, finally. "You might have missed it in the mess this morning, but Kingsley was watching you all through the raid, checking to make sure you were all right. Lucius will be a problem, but I think he was considering switching sides even before yesterday. Honestly, it will be a lot of work, on all your parts. But yes, I think it can happen."

"Besides," she added, looking amused, "do you think Professor Snape will really let you fail?"

And that, Harry concluded, heart lightening for the first time in days, was very true. The thought of _Snape_ as any type of comfort left him both bemused and distracted on the walk down to the Great Hall – which, Harry concluded, looking at his bushy-haired friend, was most likely the point.

Still feeling heartsore, weary, and exhausted, but a little less downtrodden, Harry linked his arm back with Hermione's, and headed with new determination off towards breakfast.

* * *

Three floors above, an old man dressed in eye-wateringly bright pink robes gently stroked the magnificent red phoenix sitting on his knee.

"Well, old friend, we've done all we can to set things in motion. I just hope that they can find the strength to follow it through..."

The Headmaster stood, shifting the phoenix to his shoulder, and moved to stand before the large picture window that looked over Hogwarts proper.

"Oh, my children... I will not let them fall, Fawkes. I _cannot_ let them fall..."

And very softly, he continued "... for, selfishly, I don't think my old heart could stand it."

TBC.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: First off, my thanks for your patience and continued interest – I'm afraid there was a bit of a research emergency, a couple of academic conferences and some broken bones that kept me from getting this out any sooner. However, thanks to those who read and those who reviewed, and I hope you enjoy! (BTW, I am currently on the search for a beta... so if you're a beta with some free time, please do feel free to send me a message!)

* * *

_1 week later_

Three men sat quietly in the Headmaster's office at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, surrounded on all sides by Dumbledore's eclectic collection of delicate silver instruments.

Lucius Malfoy, blond hair gathered in a sleek tail, rested his gloved hands on the top of his silver-mounted cane and sighed sub-vocally, grey eyes sharp but carefully shielding a mind whirling with plots and plans. Casually studying both the men seated with him, Lucius noted the new scuff marks on Shacklebolt's boots and the careful way he was holding himself (_indicative, _he thought_, of new injuries – and wasn't it time the Auror corps updated their healing staff?_) and the dark rings that shadowed the eyes of both men.

Lucius Malfoy might have a weakness for power, but he wasn't stupid. In the past week, he'd come to some welcome – and some less-than-welcome – conclusions. Yes, he'd been played the last time they met, and played masterfully; it had been a blow to his pride, but in true Malfoy fashion (and with some snarky prodding from the resident bat-impersonating Potions Master) he had come to the conclusion that the manipulation had simply shown him that this prospective bond mates were, at least, well worthy of becoming Malfoys.

However, if they were to become Malfoys, it was high time he learnt a little more about them, which was why he had requested a gathering for today. It would also mean that it was time for the two men to become better acquainted with what it really meant to be a _Malfoy_. And with that in mind....

"Potter – you should be getting more sleep."

There was a moment of stunned silence, as both Harry and Kingsley tried to process the sudden proclamation from the Malfoy Lord. The blond man was eyeing them both with his cool silver gaze, hands still folded precisely and his posture immaculate. Brown eyes met green in an incredulous – and slightly hysterical – question as both men tried to figure out whether that was ... _ concern_ that they actually heard? From Lucius Malfoy, prime bastard and former Death Eater extraordinaire?

Well, well, thought Kingsley, perhaps progress was being made....

"After all, no Malfoy would be seen with somebody so... worn down. You _did_ pass first year potions and thus know how to brew a basic sleeping draught, did you not?"

... or, and the Auror exchanged an exasperated look with one Harry Potter, perhaps not.

Harry sighed. "Since Albus is seemingly running late, perhaps we should begin. Lucius – I'm assuming you had a purpose for requesting the meeting today?"

Lucius studied both men silently for a moment, intrigued by the fact that once again, from their relatively powerful trio – being the top ministry Auror or Lord Malfoy were nothing to sneeze at, after all – it was still the youngest of them who instinctively took control. Furthermore, the fact that both he and Kingsley _allowed _it... well, that would be something to think about later. Seeing Shacklebolt come to the same realization, he purposely met Kingsley's shrewd gaze with his own and tipped his head the slightest amount; at Kingsley's minute nod, Lucius found himself oddly satisfied at the thought of a chance for the two of them to discuss their youngest, and most surprising bond mate. For now, however...

"Indeed I did. As you are both no doubt aware, the Malfoy family is not unfamiliar with the due processes of arranged marriages, partnerships and soul bondings. Although the latter are rare even for Malfoys, I was able to recover a tome written by the last Malfoy ancestor to find and participate in such a bonding." Seeing the interest in both men, Lucius added "and if both of you are interested, you would be welcome to stop by the Manor to peruse it."

He paused to sip his tea, letting that sink in, before he continued. "In his writings, my ancestor makes references to several of the old rites for soul bonded partnerships. As the rites were created for fostering the knowledge and trust needed between partners who were, perhaps, unfamiliar with each other, I felt they might be of use in our particular case as well."

Harry, thanks in part to judicious amounts of coaching by one snarky Slytherin, could easily unpack what Lucius meant. He was referring not to soul bonded partners who were _strangers_, but rather to those who had been enemies; with what he knew about the Malfoy family, Harry had no problems envisioning rites that firmly tilted the balance of power in the direction of one partner over the other. If they were written accounts of true soul bonded, however, the bond would have dissolved if such a rite had been performed... which meant either Malfoy was faking the book, or Lucius was being genuinely helpful. He stopped to ponder that for a moment; if this was a gesture of trust on Malfoy's part, then, to object to a rite would be an insult – but to accept it unconditionally would show stupidity of the terminal kind. Judging by the way Kingsley's eyes had narrowed, the tall Auror had gone through much the same thought process, and Harry nodded to let the Auror go ahead.

"I am sure both Harry and I would be interested in your ancestor's writings, Lucius, and I thank you for the invitation. However, as I have no doubt that you have a certain rite already in mind, would you care to elaborate?"

Lucius smirked, pleased; he'd seen the way both men had exchanged glances, and the way they had decided to handle the issue – questioning, but reigning in any impulse to accuse – spoke well for the continued associated of their triad.

"I would be pleased to host either of you at the Manor, when time permits. Yes, there is one in particular that interests me. The rite is called _Memorium_." Pausing briefly, he reached carefully inside his robes to remove two sheaves of paper, one of which he handed to each man. "These are copied from the relevant pages of the book, and describe the ritual. This is the original variation of one you might be familiar with, Kingsley. Do read, and then perhaps we might discuss it."

Perusing the pages, Kingsley was intrigued to note that it was, actually, something he was familiar with, another version of an old rite that used to be used for Auror partners to forge a solid relationship. In their line of work, you had to trust your partner to work with you and guard your back; the ritual had been designed to ensure that partners developed a firm understanding of who their partner truly was. The rite had been discontinued just under a century ago, when new management had complained that the rite infringed on their privacy, and had thus struck it from the Auror requirements. Kingsley could understand – the rite was, after all, intensely personal, being designed to demonstrate personal memories to another person. Having been burned by one too many partners out for their own good, however, Kingsley was one of the few who had been in favour of reinstating the rite into the Aurors.

This was a deeper, more intimate version of that already intense rite. Auror partnerships only required that you trust your life into another's hands; soul bonding, however, required that your trust you life, your heart, and your soul to another, so Kingsley could well understand how this rite came to be. The _Memorium_ rite involved the willing casting of a single spell by all members of the prospective soul bond; the spell would, over the course of several hours, show the other two partners three things that they needed to see about their partner. The memories that Harry would see of Kingsley, therefore, might be completely different than the ones that Lucius would view; it entirely depended on what the rite deemed they needed in order to create a viable bond. The intensely personal part of it came because none of them could control what memories they would see, nor how long the memories would last – and there was no guarantee the memories would be pleasant.

At that thought, Kingsley raised his eyes from the pages to meet Malfoy's gaze head on. The Malfoy lord had been looking straight at him, and on meeting his gaze, inclined his head slowly. Kingsley had realized that very likely, the _Memorium_ would bring up at least one memory of Lucius's time as a Death Eater; by suggesting the rite, Lucius knew he was proposing to show a Ministry Auror evidence that could land him back in Azkaban. As a gesture of trust, this was much, much more than Kingsley had been expecting.

Harry, haven taken rather longer to get through the information, came to the same realization not two minutes later. With it, however, came also the sick sense of shame that flooded him as he realized that they might both witness his attempted torture of Bellatrix; really, they could view _anything_. It took him several deep breaths to recover from the panic that erupted at that thought, as the panic caused a resurgence in his curse-caused symptoms. Pushing the papers away, he stood, drawing the gazes of both other men, and walked over to the wide window that framed Albus's office.

Pushing down both the panic and nausea, Harry forced himself to turn around and ask the question they needed answered – "Why, Lucius? Why now, why this rite, and why risk it?"

Both silver and brown eyes studies him for a moment, before Lucius gestured for him to re-take his seat and Kingsley moved to pour them all some much-needed tea. It was interesting, Lucius thought, that it was the Golden Boy who had become even slightly agitated over the rite. Both men were, truthfully, taking it better than expected, but he wondered what memory Harry could possibly have thought of that would so disturb a man who had so far shown few cracks in his self-possession. Harry had grown a great deal in the last years, but had done so through extremely trying times; what nightmares, he wondered for the first time, had those haunted green eyes seen?

As Kingsley handed him a new cup of tea, Lucius shook himself out of his thoughts and slowly answered the question.

"It has been almost two weeks since we last met, Mr. Potter. We have seen that none of us have the time to spend that it would take to properly nurture and develop a soul bond; at the moment, unless a change is caused, I cannot picture us developing the type of bond we have been speaking of. We are all holding too many secrets that are too hard to explain or share. The rite is a risk but one that I have proposed because the possible outcome outweighs the cost; furthermore, Mr. Potter, I speculate that each one of us has powerful motivators to make this bond work. If we cannot get through the rite, than we have no call to be trying to create a soul bond and frankly, if the bond is not going to work than I would prefer to cut my loses and put my time and energy towards other pursuits. I think vows to not discuss the specifics of what we see beyond the three of us would also not be unwise. "

It was a good answer, both Harry and Kingsley recognized, with enough Malfoy selfishness tacked on it make it seem believable. Kingsley had no doubt that Lucius meant what he said; oddly enough, however, Kingsley found himself speculating that perhaps Lucius truly meant this as a gesture of trust, and found within himself a small spark of respect for all that Lucius was willingly risking. Of course, Malfoy was hedging his bets by proposing the vow... but still, the accusation of a Ministry Auror as high-ranked as Kingsley, even if he could not discuss specifics, would not be easily brushed aside.

Kingsley's natural caution warred against the odd impulse he had to immediately agree to the rite. It felt... _right_ that they take such a risk, and the rite was both surprisingly straight forward and something he was familiar with. Still, primarily because he wanted to give in, Kingsley thought about objecting, asking for more time... and then he looked, and looked closely at Lucius Malfoy. The blonde man was hiding it well, but he had taken a risk today in proposing the rite; meeting that risk with objections would shatter the thin tendril of trust that Lucius had extended.

As his intuition had saved him more times than Kingsley could count, he found himself taking a deep breath and then heard himself agreeing. The cautious surprise in Malfoy's eyes only solidified his thoughts; seconds later, watching Harry grin wryly and push away doubts to add his own agreement, Kingsley felt a sweep of satisfaction rush through him. Yes, he thought, seeing his satisfaction reflected in the eyes of both Lucius and Harry, they _would_ make this work.

The moment was broken with the entrance of one Albus Dumbledore, who, over two hours late, entered with twinkling eyes to wave cheerfully at all three men. Kingsley had to work hard to refrain from rolling his eyes, but smiled when Lucius' smirk was met with an obnoxiously happy offer of candy. Harry, not feeling the need for Kingsley's restraint, _did_ roll his eyes, but appeared much calmer than either of the two older men when Albus proved his blasted omniscience by offering a warded room in the castle "for the rite, gentlemen, which I'm sure you'd like to complete soon. I've just finished checking the wards, so tomorrow should be just fine – and it is an entire suite, gentlemen, so you should feel no need to hurry things along."

Even Kingsley couldn't help a small chuckle when Lucius, eyes narrowed and face tight, declared that tomorrow would be perfectly fine, _thank you_, and requested that all portraits be removed from the warded suite before his arrival the next day.

_TBC._


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Again, thanks to those who read and those who reviewed! Here is chapter 9 – as you can see by the rate of posting, I'm experiencing a temporary and completely random lull in real life at the moment, so please do enjoy! (Please note – the following chapters do contain back stories for characters that are definitely NOT CANON.)

* * *

_The next morning_

Harry paused in front of the door, butterflies fluttering – no, swarming – through his stomach. The Headmaster, dressed in his normal garish style, stopped beside him, taking in the pale face and anxious eyes of his young protégée. Harry Potter, Albus knew, had matured so greatly in the last several years that at times it was hard to remember that he was just eighteen; even now, both sick and anxious, Harry was doing his best to subdue the trembles and look unconcerned.

"Harry," the older man said, "my dear boy. I can tell you now – _there is nothing you should be afraid of_. I realise that is easier said than done, my boy, but I hope you can believe me when I say that I know, beyond a doubt, that there is no darkness in your soul. The rite will show them what they need to know – but remember that the goal of the rite is to establish a bond. There is nothing for you to fear through these doors, my boy."

Harry took a deep breath, and then turned to his mentor. "Thank you, Albus."

The old man twinkled at him, before waving him onwards. "I'll see you on the other side, my boy."

Harry allowed himself one more deep breath, then reached out and opened the door. He entered into a cream-colored sitting room, with deep blue couches and armchairs grouped round a brick fireplace and a long, low coffee table, topped with a steaming pot of tea. A hallway opened off to the left, and Harry could just glimpse carved oaken doors along it. To the right was an open kitchen, equipped with what seemed to be a full range of appliances as well as table and chairs; Harry paused for a moment at that, before realizing that the warding would keep even house elves out. It appeared he was the first to arrive, which made Harry rather glad – it would give him some time to regain his balance and calm his nerves, to put up the mask of self-possession that he needed.

He dropped his bag off to the side of the room, along with his shoes, and walked sock-footed across the polished hardwood to drop into a plush armchair. Breathing deeply, he purposefully relaxed muscle-by-muscle, letting himself fall into the meditative state that years of Occlumency had finally drilled into his head.

* * *

This was the scene into which Kingsley Shacklebolt and Lucius Malfoy walked – a serene, cream-and-blue-colored room, and Harry, calmly curled up in an armchair, green eyes focused on something far into the distance. The two men had arrived in the Great Hall bare minutes from each other, and had decided to walk down together. Lucius, for one, wasn't quite sure what to make of the tall, quiet Auror. He'd been impressed yesterday with the man's quick mind, reminded again why Shacklebolt was the ministry's top Auror; mindful of the silent communication between them yesterday, promising to discuss Harry, he had invited the man to walk with him. Kingsley, it seemed, had much the same idea; their conversation had started off tentative, probing and feinting, but Kingsley had quickly been satisfied that Lucius also saw something special in Harry, a core of steel wrapped in power that would need to be protected and nurtured. Both men had obliquely agreed that Harry would be extremely powerful, and would need to be protected from those who would see only the power and the fame and seek to use it.

Kingsley had had to smother an urge to suggest that Lucius Malfoy, himself, could be placed in that latter category, but innate diplomatic skills had killed the urge. Although he hadn't said anything, however, apparently the Malfoy lord's thoughts ran along similar lines, for he had stopped Kingsley at that time. Unwontedly blunt, the blond haired aristocrat had said, "There is one thing you must realize, Auror Shacklebolt. I understand you do not trust me; in truth, I still hold little trust in you. However – if this rite goes through, and I think it will, then we _will_ end up soul-bonded. And – and here is the important part, Auror - as my soul-bonded, it means that both you and young Mr. Potter become _family_. And there is _nothing_, Shacklebolt, more important to the Malfoys then family. You may not trust me, but trust in that."

Kingsley had been taken aback for a very slight moment; as an Auror, though, he was well versed in evaluating truth from lie, and that statement had virtually rung with truth. Some smidgeon of mischief had seized hold of Kingsley, then, and he'd almost smothered it before – _what the hell, might as well go for it._ With a slow incline of his head, then, and an equally slow, heart-stopping grin, he'd asked "Does that mean I have to go by Auror Malfoy from now on? Wouldn't you rather be Lucius Potter?"

The blond aristocrat had started and almost stared before a wicked smirk curled up the edges of his mouth. "Touché, Auror Shacklebolt," he'd murmured, and the men had continued walking, this time much more in harmony.

Walking into the room, now, with Lucius Malfoy by his side, Kinglsey realized that the man beside him, for all their talk, was just as surprised by the palpable air of calm power that flooded the room. It emanated from Harry, sitting by the fireside, and Kingsley was once more reminded of just how powerful the young man had grown. He exchanged a glance with Malfoy as Harry, notified somehow of their entrance, turned and smoothly rose to his feet to greet them.

"Kingsley, Lucius – I'm glad you managed to find the rooms all right. There is tea if you wish, and I believe bedrooms are off to your left if you would like to drop off your things."

Both older men nodded, impressed by just how calm Harry seemed. When they had seen him yesterday, Harry had been troubled by the rite – he'd been careful to hide it, but those expressive green eyes had still spoken of inner turmoil. Now, however, they were as calm as a still lake.

Kingsley, with years of paranoia carefully honed by Mad-Eye Moody, moved to explore the rooms, extending his magic gently to prod against the wards. He chuckled softly to himself when he realized that Lucius was doing the same thing, if being a little more circumspect about it. Harry watched them both, and re-took his seat, amused; he'd already checked the wards while meditating, but knew that no amount of reassurance would convince either man until they'd checked for themselves.

Once bags had been stored, wards were checked and tea was poured, Kingsley and Lucius moved to join Harry at the couches. There was a momentary pause as each man gathered his thoughts, and then Harry looked at both his companions.

"Well, if you both are ready, we might as well begin."

_Gryffindors_, Lucius thought wryly, though he nodded to both men and unsheathed his wand, beginning to move couches, chairs and table towards the walls.

When a large bare space was cleared, Kingsley removed a piece of chalk from his robes and carefully began drawing a large triangle on the hardwood. Harry gathered the blue cushions from the chairs, dropping a comfy pile at each tip – they'd be here for a while, and Harry at least had no intention of sitting on the bare wood for hours. Lucius, meanwhile, gathered a silver-bowled instrument, much like a pensieve, and set it into the centre; it would allow them to capture and record the memories, although only their recipient would be able to view them. He'd thought, however, that one or more of them might want to review memories later, as the ritual was likely to be exhausting enough without attempting to memorize everything that occurred.

When they were ready, each man took their place, wands in hand; with one last glance, wands were raised and the long stream of Latin each had memorized was carefully recited, Harry's calm tenor blending easily with Lucius' crisp baritone and Kingsley's smooth, deep bass.

Then the white fog started to rise, and the men were each lost to memories.

* * *

Kingsley blinked, momentarily emerging from the memories. He had just seen a young Lucius Malfoy, calmly committing some truly heinous atrocities at his Death Eater initiation – and then he had watched as the young Lucius had lost the bare amount of food he'd choked down, in his private bathroom after being congratulated by his father on his return to the Manor. Kingsley had noticed that the atrocities themselves had neither appalled nor interested Lucius – he'd taken to them with the neutral air of a man with a chore to do. No, what had caused the teenage Lucius distress was the realization that his father was not congratulating him for gaining more power or protection for the Malfoy family, which is what Lucius had thought joining the Dark Lord was for, but rather for being a competent torturer. And that, to Lucius, indicated that his father was more interested in maiming and killing Muggles than the golden rule of the Malfoys – _family first, always_.

It was interesting – Kingsley still hadn't quite believed that the spell would show them the unvarnished truth about a person until now. Seeing that, however, he realized this was exactly the spell's purpose – not to show them the worst, or the best of a person, but just who they were. And Lucius Malfoy was nothing if not a contradiction, which is what, Kingsley thought, the spell probably wanted him to see.

With that settled, and a sharp nod, Kinglsey dove back into the stream of memories.

* * *

As the white mist rose, Lucius found himself in a room paneled in polished, carved wood. What interested him most, however, were the innumerable rows of lit and glowing candles that lined the wooden racks against the walls. He recognized this – this was a Remembrance Room, something that had fallen out of favour in the Wizarding World several years past. The candles would remain lit in remembrance, burning for as long as the room was kept intact. His face registered his surprise as he realized that this room almost certainly belonged to Kingsley; Lucius was fairly sure that Harry would have not had reason to come into contact with an intact Room like this. Although he hadn't been expecting Kingsley to have a Remembrance Room either, he could see now how well it would fit with the man, to remember his fallen comrades and fellow Aurors. The supposition was upheld when the door opened and Kingsley slipped into the room.

Lucius watched as the large man took a deep breath, visibly absorbing the calm that permeated the room. Kingsley walked to the corner, removing a tall white taper; moving to an empty spot on the rack, Kingsley pressed it into the wooden holder, than unsheathed his wand. With a whispered incantation, a name was inscribed in elegant calligraphy up the side of the candle, and the tip lit gently. Kingsley stood for several minutes, head bowed in silent remembrance, before nodding to himself and moving out of the room.

Curious, Lucius moved closer to the candles – he figured this memory had been chosen for a specific reason, rather than any other instance of candle lighting. He bent his head to look at the candle – and froze, breath coalescing in his chest. There, on the side, in looping, elegant gold letters, was inscribed _Narcissa Malfoy_.

It took him several minutes, but once he unfroze enough to look around and check his hypothesis, Lucius had a moment of silent, illuminating revelation. _Kingsley had lit a candle for every single person, whether Death Eater or victim, who was killed in the war. _

And then, in the gentle glow of hundreds of candles, the Malfoy lord bowed his head, and wept.

_TBC._


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: This is the continuation of the previous chapter; thanks to all those who provided an overwhelming response to chapter 9! Yes, some of the memories are glossed over – they will likely be dealt with by the characters afterwards, or included as outtakes from this story at a later date =)_

_

* * *

_

Harry, meanwhile, had made it through two of Lucius Malfoy's memories. The first had been of Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius's father, and the aftermath of Lucius' realization that Abraxas was breaking the first rule of the Malfoys – in urging Lucius to prove his continued loyalty to the Dark Lord, Abraxas had placed loyalty to a psychopath above the Malfoy family.

Something had called to Harry in that memory, watching a Lucius not far out of his teens, stand tall and proud to declare that although he'd serve the Dark Lord, he would only do so to an extent that would serve his family. The memory had left no doubts in Harry's mind about Lucius' morality; the blond had little compunction about killing. The fierce loyalty to family that Lucius used as his guiding light, however, resonated deep within Harry. Harry thought he might have to do some inner reflection, after this – viewing the memory, he had come to the slow realization that he shared a goodly amount of the sentiments expressed by the younger Lucius, and could see following a great deal of his actions in a similar situation, as morally grey as they might be.

After all, Harry had always hoped that he would be the type to do anything for those he loved – and that was exactly what Lucius had done.

In the second memory, he had seen the Malfoy lord with a young Draco, cradling his toddler son to sleep, promising that he would do anything and everything to keep his son safe... including the decision to lie about being Imperius-ed into the Dark Lord's service. In light of the first memory, Harry's world view took a paradigm shift as he realized, in a fundamental way that he never had before, that perhaps good and evil weren't as diametrically opposite as he had once thought. If the action was evil, but the reason behind it was unobjectionable and perhaps even admirable, then where did that leave Lucius?

Determined to think on this further afterwards, Harry took a deep breath and dove back in.

* * *

Kinglsey had progressed through the last of Lucius's memories. It had been a revelation, truly, to see the man in his element, manipulating people and politics to best serve the interests of his family. It had been illuminating to realize that although Lucius did, indeed, crave power, it wasn't out of simple greed; no, the power Lucius hoarded and gained went exclusively towards increasing the protection and influence of the Malfoy family. The last memory of Lucius' that he had seen had been of the Malfoy lord sitting with Severus in the Potions Master's quarters, after that first, world-changing meeting between Lucius, Kingsley and Harry. Hearing Lucius's assessment of both Kingsley and Harry had revealed much about Lucius's character, and had strangely enough made him both like and respect the Malfoy lord a great deal more. The quick, pointed wit that Lucius had demonstrated, when comfortable, was oddly attractive, as was the picture of a Lucius truly at ease, amongst 'family' (the revelation that as a Malfoy, Severus would also become family to both Kingsley and Harry had made Kingsley choke – and then begin to chuckle, as he imagined the look on Severus's face once he found out.)

This memory, however, Kingsley realized as it began to unfold, was Harry's. It was of the fight at the Department of Mysteries, and Kingsley frowned as he wondered what could possibly have happened that he hadn't seen. He understood, abruptly, as the focus shifted and he watched Harry chase after Bellatrix. Moments later, at a shouted "Crucio!," he realized exactly what had caused Harry such turmoil the day before. It was interesting, he mused; Harry had obviously been worried about this memory, whereas Kingsley found it reassuring. It showed, firstly, that Harry was not a complete saint – without it, he would have worried again that the spell was only showing one side of his partner's character. Secondly, and the part that he didn't think Harry realized, was that this memory was intensely reassuring in that it showed Harry's moral mettle – it had taken the death of his grandfather, the injuring of his closest friends, seeming betrayal by several individuals, and a great deal of hurt and frustration for Harry to even _fail_ at casting a Crucio. For most, that would have been more than enough to snap them – but for Harry, the Dark magic still would not work, for at heart, the younger wizard didn't have the inherent capability for cruelty that a successful Crucio required.

If what they speculated about Harry's eventual power levels was true, then, this was something very, very good – now, Kingsley mused, if only they could get Harry to see it that way.

* * *

Lucius had made it through both of Kingsley's other memories; in seeing him joining the Auror academy after the death of his favourite cousin, Lucius had gained a sense of the man's deep roots in family and kinship. The Auror had a quiet capability and intelligence that Lucius appreciated, and his moral strength, which allowed Kingsley to face hard choices and make even harder decisions, had gained him a great deal of Lucius's respect. The moral code that the Auror followed might differ from Lucius' own, but that did not stop the blond from appreciating the strength Kingsley needed to stick to it.

The last memory of Kingsley's had puzzled Lucius somewhat; it was seemingly nothing unusual, and in itself contained no great revelation. The other two memories, Lucius thought, had made a point to demonstrate certain aspects of Kingsley's character. This last one, however – it had shown a dark room, lit only by the low, cheerful glow of a flickering fireplace. At first, Lucius had thought it was empty; then, however, he had spotted the tall Auror in a wooden rocking chair, cradling a sleeping child to his chest and looking more at peace than Lucius had ever seen the man. Seeing Kingsley in this setting, at ease, only made Lucius more aware of how often the man's face carried lines of weariness and pain. Lucius was broken from his musings by the entry of another to the scene. A woman – Kingsley's relative, Lucius judged – had come in to take the child to bed, but the big man had demurred. She had accepted with a rueful smile – apparently this was quite common – and had left Kingsley to carry the child to bed, and then to carefully tuck the tiny girl to sleep. Lucius had watched, and something small and warm had lit inside him at watching the large hands gently tucking blankets and pillows, and listening to that deep voice humming a quiet lullaby.

If he had been less of a Malfoy, Lucius might have been inclined to describe the scene as downright _adorable_; a Malfoy he was, however, and thus he was left with the edges of a smile just flickering around the lines of his customary smirk, and his spirit curiously lightened. Watching his bondmate – and, yes, by this time Lucius was pretty sure the bonding was inevitable, and even, for Merlin's sake, (and here Lucius shuddered) _wanted_ - watching Kingsley happy, and at peace, was something Lucius wanted to see again.

And what Lucius Malfoy wanted, Lucius Malfoy got.

But for now, he had more memories to view – Harry's memories. He cautiously entered the trio of memories about Harry, curious about what he would see. In the last weeks, he had realized that there was more to the Golden Boy than just the Gryffindor facade. Now, seeing the first memory passing by, and hearing a rather interesting conversation between Harry and the tattered Sorting Hat, he speculated that there was a great deal of potential there, and vowed to help Severus in his unofficial quest of Slytherin-ing the Gryffindor Golden Boy.

Lucius, too, then saw the memory of Bellatrix and that failed Crucio; like Kingsley, he realized that this was what Harry had been worried about. For Lucius, however, the memory spoke of Harry's love for family – for Sirius, Harry had tried something that was so anathema to his very being that his magic had rejected it.

And that, Lucius understood.

It was the third memory of Harry's, however, that evoked an emotional response from the blond Slytherin. He'd found himself in a sterile, frighteningly clean house, watching an episode from Harry's childhood. The memory had flashed by, showing days of Harry's repulsive Aunt and Uncle telling Harry how worthless he was, how he wasn't worth their love, how no-one would or could ever love a no-good runt like him. Although atrocious, it was not the verbal abuse that had gained Lucius's attention; rather, what Lucius would remember instead was the image of a tiny Harry in his cupboard after a particularly bad afternoon. The small boy had managed to keep his eyes dry through the entire ordeal, as his cousin had repeatedly got him in trouble and his Aunt's had subjected Harry to a vicious hour-long harangue on how glad Lilly must have been to die and be divested of a worthless child like him. Back in his cupboard, later, the young Harry's eyes had started to water. Even as the tears fell, however, small, grubby fists had stubbornly wiped them away and a tiny, fierce voice had vowed that he _wouldn't_ believe them, that he _wouldn't_ listen but would pretend and pretend and pretend and so that _they _would never know.

That vow, so fierce and proud and strong, had resonated deeply with Lucius as he thought of himself, years earlier, making a similar vow when there was no one else to trust, no one else to wipe away the tears and make things right. When his father had put Voldemort above family, Lucius had vowed that he would _not _do the same; seeing a tiny, emotionally battered Harry stand tall and strong to make the same promise, ignited a burning pride within Lucius.

This, this spirit was worth knowing, was worth saving and serving and keeping. Somebody with this type of spirit was _family_.

* * *

Harry had moved into Kingsley's memories, now. Watching Kingsley, newly graduated from Hogwarts, soberly applying to the Aurors after his cousin's death had made Harry's heart hurt in sympathy and then in pride as Kingsley had quickly accelerated through the ranks. The second memory, in contrast, made Harry burn with rage as he watched Kingsley's boyfriend and lover deny their relationship to teasing colleagues, decrying that there was no way he'd ever be "one of those." There wouldn't be, Harry though, ever enough happiness to erase the pain of that betrayal for Kingsley – but he respected the man more for it, as Harry had watched the Auror refuse to give into the teasing and taunting, shaming his colleagues instead with his quiet strength and unwavering nobility.

There was a lesson there, Harry thought, which he'd have to contemplate later – a lesson in personal moral integrity, and the ability to discount the opinions of others in order to maintain said integrity. Yes, Kingsley would be someone that Harry could talk to, he thought – somebody who would truly _understand_ in a way that few ever would.

Over the course of the last memories, Harry found that the quiet admiration he held for Kingsley solidifying into something stronger, something bright and solid and _good_. If Lucius had moved from pitch-black evil to something rather more grey and yet curiously admirable in Harry's thoughts – sly and slippery, but with a fierce, shining honor as both sword and shield – then Kingsley became brighter, clearer, a deep well of calm, solid strength. It wasn't that he was blinded to their faults, Harry thought; no, the memories had quite effectively ensured he was aware of exactly who his potential bondmates were, flaws and all. Rather, he felt like there was an understanding, and an empathy, that went further with these two men than with any other person that Harry had ever met.

And Harry was strangely content with that.

* * *

Slowly, quietly, then, the three men retreated from the welter of memories.

Kingsley shook his head, trying to stop the room from spinning. The last two of Harry's memories had been similarly intense; meeting Harry's relatives, even in memory, made him want to engage in some muggle-baiting of his own even as it made Harry's inability to cast Cruciatus that much more impressive. By contrast, watching a grieving Harry thinking over the prophecy during the summer, and deciding that if death was what was required to keep his friends safe, then he would meet it head on, had filled Kingsley with a bone-deep mixture of grief and pride. His path, he had decided, belonged with Harry no matter what the result of the soul-bond might be.

Lucius, meanwhile, was attempting to regain his usual level of Slytherin self-possession. He felt as though he had been flayed raw; he tried to stretch discretely, then gave up and with less than his usual feline grace, tried to work the kinks out of knotted shoulders.

Harry, by contrast, let his mind go blank, depending on Occlumency to border off the memories until he could think about them later, in private. He stumbled to his feet, adjusting slightly faster than the two older men. He saw Kingsley stand up as well, both the man's knees cracking as he lent against the wall, trying to stabilize. Seeing Lucius's face, tired and knotted with pain, Harry found himself staggering over to offer the man a hand up. Lucius's head snapped up, surprised – then, ever so slowly, he placed a long fingered, aristocratic hand in Harry's, allowing the younger man to haul him up. Though still rather dizzy, Lucius managed to move fast enough to get a hand under Harry's elbow when the younger man tripped, the exhaustion catching up to him.

All three men, without needing any discussion, headed wearily for the bedrooms. There would be time for talk, later – but for now, what they needed was sleep.

Harry vaguely noticed supportive hands that pulled open a door and gently guided him to the bed inside – as soon as his tired body and suddenly-fuzzy mind hit the mattress, though, all thoughts left his head and he descended, silently, swiftly, into the depths of an exhausted sleep.

He never noticed how his two companions, in silent agreement, gently shifted him under the covers and tucked him in, or how two pairs of eyes, grey and brown, met in quiet understanding before dousing the light and closing the door, leaving Harry to peaceful, dreamless sleep.

_TBC._


	11. Chapter 11

AN: Oh, gosh, you guys have been amazing – it's been a hectic time, and I have appreciated your messages, reviews and thoughts a great deal. It has been a while, but I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thanks to PhoenixfromtheFlame, who volunteered to beta, but who I neglected to contact due to a really, really odd schedule (thanks, PhoenixfromtheFlame!) – as usual, therefore, all mistakes you see can only be blamed on me =)

* * *

Kingsley woke up to a spill of golden light that illuminated the room. Groping for his wand, he cast a quick _tempus_ , stretching as he did so. At the 8 o'clock that appeared in faint golden tracery, Kingsley felt his eyes widen. He hadn't slept this late for years; Auror training had required them to be up by 5:30 a.m. every morning, and even after training, years of the 6 a.m. Auror wake-up call had made it near impossible for the large man to sleep in.

Rolling out of bed, he groaned and stretched sore muscles, attempting to work out the stiffness that still lingered. Muscles rippled as he rolled his shoulders and neck before padding to the small en-suite bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, dressed and refreshed by a brisk shower, the tall Auror slipped out of the room, heading for the common area. Spotting a familiar head of blond hair, Kingsley stopped in the living room, moving to the other armchair when Lucius gave a faint smile of welcome. The aristocrat gestured wordlessly to the tray sitting on the coffee table, which held a steaming pot of tea and several mugs.

Pouring himself a cup, Kinglsey let himself drift, enjoying the stillness of the quiet morning. He was lost in his thoughts when, sombrely, Lucius broke the silence.

"I – it is not often that I do so, but I did want to convey my heartfelt thanks, Kingsley. The old ways, and the remembrances, are too often lost in our current society." His mouth twisted up, slightly, in a gentle smirk. "Narcissa, I am sure, would have appreciated it."

The _and so do I_ went unspoken, but turning to face the man, Kinglsey could easily read the grief and thanks, commingled, in Lucius's gaze.

Nodding, Kingsley decided only on a quiet "you are welcome," understanding that at this time, there was nothing more that needed to be said about that particular memory.

Both men sat in silence for several minutes, savouring the quiet company and the warmth emanating from hot tea. Sometime later, the peace was broken once more, this time by a low, rumbling growl that emanated from the Auror's stomach; embarrassed, Kingsley looked to Lucius only to hear a small snort from the blond aristocrat.

"As I do not possess the skill of Muggle cookery, and I assume you do not either - unless Mr. Potter can cook without magic, I am afraid we are rather out of luck" Lucius commented, looking toward the Muggle kitchen.

"I can, actually," came a quiet, sleep-fuzzy voice from the doorway. Both Kinglsey and Lucius turned and spotted Harry, black hair tousled and even more messy than normal, propped drowsily against the door frame. Kingsley smiled in welcome, than hid a slight snort of his own when he noticed Lucius's eyes travel up and down the younger man's rumpled frame, clad only in a thin t-shirt and low-riding flannel pants. He figured Harry must have awakened sometime in the night to change into something a little more comfortable – when Lucius and he had manoeuvred the younger man to bed last night, they'd left him wearing his day clothes.

Kingsley would admit, however, that Lucius's... appreciation was not misplaced. By no means classically handsome, Harry's lean frame housed a charismatic personality that made him all the more attractive.

"If you'll both get plates and utensils, I'll put something on."

Harry's voice startled the men from their musings; both jumped slightly, then guiltily traded looks as their youngest member obliviously headed towards the kitchen nook, where the quiet clatter of pots and pans and sizzling meat could soon be heard.

Offering Lucius a hand up, and trading wry smirks, the men headed to the stack of cutlery and plates Harry had pointedly left on the table.

* * *

An hour later, well nourished and rather more awake, the three men re-convened in the plush armchairs dotting the living room. Harry curled up in his, carefully nursing the largest mug of hot, sweet tea that he could find. Years of living with the Dursleys had conditioned him to early mornings and long, tiring days, but the ritual had left him still tired and aching even after a full night's sleep.

In the last months alone, he had gotten hit with a potentially fatal curse, participated in raids, and found the two individuals who were supposed to quite literally be the other parts of his soul. Now, they were here, of their own willing, and even through the blessed relief from the curse, Harry was experiencing massive, overwhelming guilt. Guilt, for Lucius and Kingsley had come, and exposed their private memories, but Harry had kept the prophecy from them. If they continued on the current course, there would be no going back; they were compatible, all three of them could feel it, and bonding was almost inevitable. Was it fair, though, to bond these two men to him, heart, magic and soul, without them knowing the fate he was under?

A small part of him thought that it would be better not to tell – that the bond was needed to win the war, and the war must be won at all costs. That, however, reeked of Albus Dumbledore, and as much as Harry loved the old man, he had long sworn never to act 'for the greater good,' having experienced for himself the consequences of the wily Headmaster's manipulations.

Feeling eyes upon him, Harry looked up to see Kingsley and Lucius watching him – Kingsley, with overt concern, and even Lucius with a slight furrow to his brow that suggested worry.

"I think," Lucius said slowly, "that there are some things we do need to speak of. " He paused, meeting the gazes of both other men. "Are we prepared to continue onwards? This is the turning point, gentlemen, where we either forsake this course, forever, or commit, equally permanently..."

"And if we are to commit, then there are some matters we can no longer avoid," Kingsley continued softly.

"Precisely."

It felt, Harry thought wildly, like being at the very pinnacle of a giant see-saw, or the crux of a crossroads; step either way, and things would irrevocably change. He resisted the urge to burst into hysterics, or vomit, and desperately wished he hadn't eaten that last scone. He was 18, for Merlin's sake! At 18, weren't you supposed to be running around, getting absolutely pissed and being generally stupid, not deciding whether to bind himself forever to two men he was only starting to know? It wasn't bloody fair...

_And, Potter, since when has life been required to be fair? _his mental voice chimed in. Harry wondered, distantly, if it was sign of impending insanity that his mental voice had started to sound an awful lot like a certain greasy-haired Potions professor. _The situation is as it is, so pull together those measly lumps you call a brain, and decide. Or is that sanctimonious Gryffindor courage as elusive as your so-called intelligence?_

And that, Harry thought, taking a deep breath, was that. _Time to put on those big-girl panties, Potter._

"I, personally," he said shakily, breaking the silence, "vote that we have that awkward conversation. I want to go forward with this, but there are two things I should tell you before you decide fully. Firstly, we came looking for you because of a curse on me that requires a bonding to cure it. Though, since I am trying to be honest, I'm starting to think I would want this even without the curse. Secondly, there is a prophecy that states I have to kill Voldemort, or die by his hand. So I understand fully if that makes you not want to do this anymore, because really, it's not like either of you signed up for this, and... yes. Well. More tea, anyone?"

Someday, Harry thought semi-hysterically, he would look back on this and laugh. Today, however, was not that day.

* * *

Ah, that incomparable Gryffindor courage, Lucius mused. Oddly, the thought wasn't as disparaging as normal; no, he acknowledged, that declaration had taken courage. He had figured there was a reason the Order had come looking for Harry's soul-mates, but had thought it had more to do with creating a better weapon for the old coot to aim at Lucius' former master. And the prophecy – Lucius' brain moved into overdrive, shifting through half-hidden comments and barely remembered conversations – yes, suddenly the whole Ministry of Magic debacle and Voldemort's odd Potter-obsession made so much more sense.

He looked, truly looked at the young man sitting across from him. The narrow shoulders were tense, but determined, and that young jawline spoke of nerves, but also strength. Harry had stopped fidgeting and rambling, and, Lucius acknowledged, the poise with which the younger man sat through the current excruciating silence was truly impressive.

Could he bind himself, irrevocably, to following this young man into war? Or, Lucius thought wryly, was he, the arrogant, the cold-hearted, too far gone to even think of leaving now? Like threads of hardest diamond binding him, Lucius suddenly understood that it had been too late for him to leave after that very first meeting; it was a humbling realization, but true nonetheless. Even if they were not magically bound, he was too invested in these men – both of them – to walk away now.

Slowly, deliberately, Lucius sat forward and locked his gaze first with Harry, then with Kingsley. "I confess, Mr. Potter, that I find myself less surprised than I think I ought to be. In my opinion, however, this changes nothing. For whatever reason we were brought here, and for whatever the future may hold, I think we three have come to a common understanding – and that is not something I wish to discard on the basis of a bit of initial duplicity. Quite simply, I, too, place 'my vote,' as you so quaintly put it, to go forward and complete the binding. "

A breath, and then he continued – because for this, for these men, he could be a little bit Gryffindor - "In truth, Mr. Potter, I find myself unwilling to let either one of you go."

* * *

Of all the things Kingsley had been expecting, a near-declaration of possible feelings from Lucius Malfoy had not been it. Truthfully, he felt a little stunned; if nothing else, he thought bemusedly, he could never accuse either man of indecisiveness or lack of courage.

Kingsley had figured that there was something like a prophecy floating around; he, too, after all, remembered the disastrous episode at the Ministry. A couple of Order meetings, and it wasn't difficult to put the pieces together. He was a little more surprised at the curse, but now that he thought about it, it made a lot more sense.

Lucius, and Harry. A former death eater, and the saviour of the wizarding world. Could he, Kingsley Shacklebolt, do this?

"Yes."

It took him a moment, before he realized that he had said that out loud. Looking at the men across from him, however, Kingsley felt no need to take his agreement back.

"Yes," he said again, slower this time. "I agree with Lucius on both points, actually. Harry, you didn't exactly ask for this either... but now, being here, I don't think I would change anything that has happened, even if I had the chance. And I think I would regret letting either one of you go, no matter how this may turn out."

Three sets of eyes met, and there was the sudden feeling of _yes _and _complete_ and _done_, like the final piece of a puzzle that they didn't even know they were building snapping suddenly into place. It was both frighteningly heavy, this decision, and yet curiously easy, as if they were always meant to end up here, in this room, at this time, united in this one decision.

Kingsley could feel tension that he hadn't realized he was carrying drain out of him; he wasn't the only one, however, as he noticed Lucius' shoulders ease and Harry start to unwind from his curled-up position in the armchair. Both men looked easier, freer, less ... well, less burdened, less alone.

And that, Kingsley thought, oddly content as he watched Harry picked up the pot to pour another round, and Lucius opened the tin of biscuits he had scrounged up, was as it should be.

_TBC._


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Thank you to all those who read, and especially to all those who reviewed - your interest in chapter 11 was greatly appreciated, and definitely prompted the swift arrival of chapter 12! As usual, please note that the HP world, and the characters who inhabit it, are (alas) not mine.

* * *

_A short interlude_

Three hours later, Harry found himself in the midst of one of the more... surreal... conversations he'd ever taken part in.

"Really, Kingsley, "Lucius drawled, "chocolate chip is exceedingly plebeian. You will have to come to the Manor, and at least attempt to educate your palate somewhat. One simply cannot reply 'chocolate chip' when the Bulgarian minister's wife asks about one's favourite English biscuit."

It had started out rather harmlessly. Following that awfully tense moment when Harry blurted out about the curse, and the prophecy, and then the decision all three had engaged in, Harry had felt rather wrung out. It had been Lucius who suggested a bit of a break, and a discussion of something a bit more light-hearted, at least for a while.

"And I suppose your aristocratic taste buds rebel if there isn't a different flavour of hand-rolled pure-butter biscuit available for your tea every day, Lucius? And chocolate chip is rather politically savvy, you know– shows identification with the common populace, avoids any whiff of elitism, translates well across inter-national borders..."

They had debated the Snape-as-vampire rumors (which, interestingly enough, Lucius confirmed had been around since he had been a Hogwart's student), and had pondered the strange lunacy of the headmaster and his sweets... and then they had gotten on the topic of biscuits. And politics. Or biscuits in politics – or maybe the politics of biscuits. By this point, Harry wasn't quite sure.

"But chocolate chip also indicates a lack of creativity – and no populace, Kingsley, wants a politician _just like them_. That hint of elitism in lavender shortbread, that air of gravitas in _biscuit rose de reims_, the old-money taste of _cavallucci_, even the authority of a good brandy snap – that feel of weighty, aristocratic _history_ – is what they want. They want somebody to lead, but also to inflate their own egos by suggesting that this individual, who represents them all, is upper-crust, sophisticated – in short, the person they wish to be. And nobody wishes to be somebody whose favourite biscuit is _chocolate chip_."

In the midst of their argument – _ahem_, discussion – Lucius had briefly paused to call a house-elf, and now both men were illustrating their point with sample after sample of exceedingly delicious biscuits – which Harry, as apparent arbitrator, was always expected to try. That part, he didn't mind so much. (Nor, he quietly admitted to himself, did he mind the way that the animated discussion had relaxed his – oh Merlin, his soul-mates – to the point where they both lounged, cuffs undone and shirtsleeves rolled up, sniping gently at each other. It was rather... well, rather nice, truthfully.)

"Perhaps, but I think the average voter would also have something to say about a politician whose favourite biscuit are hand-shaped, imported, bittersweet fleur-de-sel macarons, Lucius. There has to be some common ground between politician and voter base, or you risk complete alienation from the general populace. And Valencia-cardamom or fig-and-cold-pressed-olive just isn't relatable – it sounds more like something my mother would keep in a small pot to lotion her hands with than an actual biscuit."

(Deep down, Harry suspected that the entire argument had been started for the express purpose of manipulating him into eating something – perhaps his earlier comment about feeling a bit woozy (since he'd been too nervous to eat much lately) hadn't been the brightest move ever, but Harry had to admit he wasn't really minding the results. Of course, the slightly manipulative care the two men were now directing at him was a little strange, but it was oddly nice at the same time; and now that both men knew about the effects of the curse, Harry was pretty sure he would be subject to a great deal more interference in his health. But, considering he got fed lots of really good biscuits – life, Harry thought, could always be much worse.)

And so Harry continued to munch on his biscuits, drink his tea, and happily bask in the moment, where there the biggest decision to be made involved shortbread versus sugar cookies, and nothing was said about war, or death, or fate and prophecy and fighting.

This was, he thought, something very, very close to absolute contentment.

* * *

Of course, eventually they did have to move on to more serious matters. After some time apart, and an excellent dinner, they reconvened at the cluster of armchairs, ready to begin again.

It was, Harry later reflected, perhaps the longest and most difficult conversation he had ever had. It had been Lucius, rather surprisingly, who insisted on absolute honesty – any one of them could refuse to answer a question, but any answers given had to be absolutely, completely honest.

For Harry, who had always loathed dissembling and being kept in the dark, it had been... a revelation. He'd learnt, rather ruefully, the asking the question meant that one also had to be prepared to deal with the answer – something, he found, rather more difficult than he had thought. Lucius, true to his word, had answered every question calmly and breathtakingly, unnervingly bluntly.

"_Did you... do you regret your time as a Death Eater?" _

_ A pause. _

"_Yes– but the griefs I hold, Harry, are selfish. I regret the time wasted, serving a madman who gave no loyalty in return. I regret that my past deeds cause you both uneasiness, and stand in the way, _

_ perhaps, of this bond forming. I regret that Narcissa was killed, and I regret the costs to the Malfoy family. But do I grieve for the Muggles we tortured and killed?" _

_ Another, longer pause, before that sharp grey gaze locked unflinchingly on the other two men. _

"_No. "_

A year ago, Harry knew that he would have seen this as yet another piece of evidence that Lucius Malfoy was nothing but a cruel-hearted, merciless bastard. Now, though - now things weren't quite so clear, and Harry was feeling a bit adrift. They had discussed the Department of Mysteries, and briefly touched on Harry's guilt over Sirius –

"_Sirius died, Harry, in the best way possible – doing something he believed in. If one must go, then there is no better way. I mourn his loss, but not the way in which that loss occurred. Grieve, Harry, but_

_ do not let grief run your life – trust both myself and Lucius when we tell you that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that you could have done."_

and his guilt over Bellatrix -

"_Why, Harry, should you be ashamed for loving your godfather so fiercely that you would do everything in your power to right that wrong? If that is evil, then so be it – for I would far rather you be 'evil,'_

_ then, than to lack that fierce love.''_

and even his childhood.

"_I might be an Auror, Harry, but I agree with Lucius wholeheartedly – your relatives are the most despicable sorts of... people... to ever grace this planet. They were wrong, Harry, completely, totally wrong._

_ And no, I don't think this simply because I don't know you well enough – no child, Harry, even if you were the young Grindlewald himself, deserves to be treated so poorly." _

Interspersed with this, there had been several emotionally taxing revelations between Kingsley and Lucius -

"_No. No, I don't despise you, Lucius. The things that you have done, however, are anathema to everything I have striven for, and everything I have ever worked for as an Auror, or held dear. At the same_

_ time, I have to honor you for your courage, admire you for your loyalty, and esteem you for your strength of will. It will take time, Lucius, but I think that you and I have much to learn from one another." _

and between the older men and Harry himself.

"_I don't know what I can give you. For all the Boy-Who-Lived rubbish, I'm just Harry - a short-sighted, rather scrawny wizard who is somehow supposed to kill the strongest dark lord in the world. That's not_

_ much of a gift for either one of you." _

"_You assume, Harry, that 'just Harry' is somehow not enough – and yet I know that Miss Granger, for one, would take umbrage with a statement like that. Personally, all I am looking for, from you, is_

_ honesty, and a chance. Let us take this at whatever speed it might develop. For now ,when either one of you are in need of companionship, or assistance, or are feeling burdened, I only ask that you_

_ remember that you are no longer alone – and I shall strive to do the same. I think that we three have too often been alone. " _

It was Kingsley who noticed that all three of them were starting to look rather worn down once more, and, with a swift glance to Lucius, the deep discussion was shelved for the evening. All three men knew that this was just the beginning; tomorrow, Harry would be required to rejoin the general school population in time for Monday classes, and Kingsley and Lucius would need to return to their homes and occupations. There would be meetings, in the next week, to nurture this growing relationship, but beyond that many of their interactions would involve others; Lucius had proposed, and the other two had agreed, that in a week or two it would be time to introduce the potential soul-bonded trio to their nearest and dearest. There was, therefore, a trip to the Manor planned for the week-after-next, to have dinner with both Severus and Draco. Harry had planned a private lunch with just himself, Ron, and Hermione, to introduce the volatile redhead to the idea. Kingsley had mentioned something about Tonks, as his partner, and so a second group dinner had been planned to meet with Remus Lupin and Tonks, over at Grimmauld Place.

This was, therefore, the last calm before the storm occurred, and all three men silently agreed to take advantage of it.

Tea was poured, and the conversation was moved to the large couch, which was much better for casual conversation. They meandered here and there, through a multitude of inconsequential, harmless topics, often punctuated by large spaces of comfortable silence. Eventually, Harry, warm, tired and comfortable, drowsed contentedly, listening to the quiet murmur of the conversation that wound between Kingsley and Lucius. Neither of the older men said a single word when Harry drifted off between them, legs pressed, warm and solid, from hip to knee against Kingsley's. The messy black head nodded sleepily, till Lucius casually shifted so that Harry was pillowed on one of the Malfoy lord's lean, well-dressed shoulders. Kingsley stifled a small smile, and carefully didn't mention the long, aristocratic hand that plucked the glasses that were slipping down Harry's nose, folding them and sending them, with a careless wand wave, to settle on the low table. The Auror did, however, carefully summon two snifters , a decanter, and a warm blanket; he threw the blanket causally over their sleeping third before pouring two fingers of a dark, rich brandy into each snifter, handing one to Lucius before settling deeper into the cushions with a sigh.

Cradling their drinks, both men then sipped in comfortable silence, guarding the sleep of the Wizarding world's greatest hope.

_Tbc. _


End file.
